


A Fool's Errand

by Cers



Series: Essek Week 2020 [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: C2E90, C2E91, Coda, Essek Week, Listen all I'm saying is that there's a period of time when he's not on screen and-, Missing Scene: 90-91, NGL this is a love letter to the EGTW, prompt: wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:01:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23452132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cers/pseuds/Cers
Summary: Essek takes a trip to Nicodranas to make an important purchase.
Series: Essek Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683388
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67
Collections: Essek Week





	A Fool's Errand

**Author's Note:**

> Outside of communion in my youth I've never even so much as looked at wine ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The Lighthouse of the Wildmother is nothing shy of beautiful. Its alabaster shape, lovingly sculpted and dedicated to Melora, stands tall and proud as Protector of this coastline. An apt tribute to its avatar indeed. 

It is midday at the port city of Nicodranas, the docks bustling and people rowdy. Workers carry forth luggage, wares, crates, goods, livestocks, textiles, and more across the wharf. Winds, warm and kind, flutter silken shades draped across the active streets. Cooked fish, steamed vegetables, spiced dishes, and sweet pastries percolated with the sea air, watering the mouth and engaging buried wanderlust. 

It truly was a beautiful city.

Essek stands beneath an awning, watching out to the great blue expanse as little dots made their way across the horizon. Trade ships, military, pleasure, and fishing boats- there were many decorating these sapphire waters, and he got lost for a moment tracking a few. His arms are crossed lightly, and fingers play an unknown melody on his elbow. 

The waves- he likes watching the waves. The push and pull of the tides gives him a familiar feeling in his chest of the to and fro of his magic casting. Engaging the warp and weft of the arcane was very much like grasping the ocean with your palms. A small sample might be held, but only for a few moments before it trickles out into the nebulous waters once more. 

Sea birds and gulls caw overhead, occasionally swooping to the sea for a meal. A scruffy, orange cat streaks across a stone wall, chasing after a quarry unseen. 

A family fusses on by, chatting in languages unknown to him. A tier of sailors jostle on by loudly crowing about inns, and companions they were seeking out. A halfling woman in a leather apron, tools in hand hurries forth. A dwarven man signing with fluid practice to his gnomish companion earns a hearty laugh as they went, the joke told. Carriages being pulled, horses guided along, two Zhelezo troop on by. 

The eclectic nature of the city appealed to Essek simply for its diversity alone. It was much like Rosohna that way. While the differences between the two cities were literally night and day, there was still a familiarity about a melting pot of all peoples co-existing that resonated with him. 

A pair of women - a silver-haired tiefling and a blue-eyed elf - glide by him arm-in-arm. Their heads are bent low, smiles containing secrets, and eyes only for each other. Essek looks away. 

_“Are you single?”_

Essek sighs, filling on that seaside air. He is here for a purpose after all. A stupid, idiotic, ridiculous purpose at that. Pushing off of the sandstone wall he’d been leaning against, he double checks his disguise. Satisfied as a tanned elf with blonde hair, dressed in simple-yet-stylish teal garments, he drifts away and towards the market. 

Practice over many years allows him to imitate walking in his illusion, while maintaining his preferred floating, and he falls into the stream of people with ease. 

More children go by- this time playing tag. He remembers seeing several goblin and bugbear children play in the Gallimaufry district only a few weeks ago - when he first inspected what is now known as the ‘Xhorhaus’. Incredible how similar games evolve independently across nations. The children are laughing and screaming merrily at each other, weaving through the various folks. They come back and forth, seemingly staying within some predetermined boundaries. Eventually they stop, breathless and panting, happy and sated. One- an older human girl- brings out a bag of sweets and starts to dish them out in an orderly fashion. Each child seemed to have a specific favourite, and they each beamed with thanks when they received it. This was clearly a ritual, and the leader knew it all by heart. 

_“Essek. We don’t know anything about you.”_

He carries on, turning to go further into the city, and the ocean at his back.

The source of a lot of the mouth watering smells is found. Canvases, stalls, carts, and displays alike are set up along the long street. Marketeers call out their wares, musicians spoil with jaunty tunes. Young children, watched over by their shopkeeper parents, bang on little pots and wave around woven dolls. 

Rare delicacies and common street food alike taunt him, steam rising and shaved ice melting. A man tends to a massive pot almost the length his arm span, flipping rice and vegetables and tumbling in seafood as it cooks. A trio walk by with cones of noodles and meat, the spices tickling his nose as they laugh and walk. 

Essek licks his lips as he travels past, denying his own temptations as usual. He has dinner to attend soon after all. It wouldn’t do to spoil his appetite. 

(Not that he had one, his stomach churning more than a stormy sea right now.)

A group of older folk go by, two pushing others in wheeled chairs, lace blankets across their laps. They’re cajoling, and smiling toothily between them. A water skin passes hands and they quench their thirst. Their pace is slower than those around, but the crowd parts intuitively to make way for their elders. 

_“We should really hang out more.”_

A dog barks, and Essek sees a young halfling boy calling out happily, and (presumably) his father chase it towards the beach. They are lost in the crowds very quickly. A wide-open hatch in a building releases a perfume of bitter and dark coffee as he passes.

_“Do you have kids?”_

An orcish newborn gurgles in a mother’s arms, the tusked woman proudly showing off the child to her customers. A human man grins beside her, serving up scoops of cocoa and coffee beans into hemp bags. They chatter excitedly amongst themselves, cooing over the new addition. The baby is a deep green colour like her mother, with a tuft of dark hair like her father.

_“Mom’s name?”_

An image of his Den’s Umavi menaces in his mind’s eye. A severe looking woman, though of course beautiful by Kryn standards. He had been _blessed_ with her sharp features and defined colouring, so he was told. All high cheekbones and carefully schooled expressions. His eyes though, they are his father’s. 

The food stalls eventually give way to textiles. Silks, cottons, wools, yarns, and bolts line his way now. A chromatic array of brilliance flanks him as he goes, his eye momentarily caught by a flash of unmistakable cobalt blue ahead. A bearded dwarf crosses ahead of him, intent on going towards the docks it seems. His sash flitters like a tail. 

This was foolish. What was he _doing_? 

Too much effort, is what. He easily side-steps around an arguing pack of sellswords, heads bent over a map seemingly lost. An open bakery with a blazing stone oven wafts scents of pastries and fresh loaves. A young girl laughs loudly behind him. 

They were his _charges_ , nothing more. 

Sunlight filtered through the awnings above as he passed, each slicing beam blinding him with a wince. For all he enjoyed the anonymity afforded in a place so populous, the loud brilliance disorientated him after a while. He belonged in the darkness and shade, ultimately. 

_“Who is it?”_ _  
_ _“It’s the Shadowhand.”_

He shakes his head clear, weaving in and out of the crowd like a loom in motion. His illusionary hair shakes with him. 

Shadowhand. It is - _was_ \- a safe title. It was armour, boxing him in to certain confidences and assumptions and tabarded in a long, body-length mantle. It is a role he knew with well-rehearsed lines and even more studied behaviours. Things were expected of him as Shadowhand, as one of a higher Den. It was safe, scripted. _Known_. Everything with the Mighty Nein knocked him sidewards. Tonight’s events, standing in the court of the Bright Queen and pleading their case to consider peace was simply one of those times. 

Improvisation should have been a strong suit for him given his position and _extracurricular activities_. Yet he still clings to orchestrated codes of conduct. Just like he was doing now. 

The textile row gives way to a crossroads. To the left, on the dock-side, smithies hammers could be heard striking proudly like thunder, fires roaring for glassblowers and their creations. Gemcutters and their goggles glinted like starlight as they inspected their wares. 

Ahead opened up into Guild merchants and crafters, their bright banners boasting their crests above carved arched doorways. Some catered to masonry, woodworking, or mechanical tinkering. The building closest to him stacked phials and alchemical apparatus high in its windows, colourful fumes coming from its chimney.

To his right, with somewhat quieter traffic, was a road leading towards the Opal Archways. He turns here. 

_“Bye Essek!”_

Nicodranas was busy, that was true, but it was less so than it’s bookending sister city of Port Damali. Port Damali may have been the ideal place for his current mission, with greater variety of imports, but Essek had only been there once before and found it overwhelming. Nicodranas had the right amount of demos to remind him of Rosohna. It was less suffocating. 

And he had heard nice things about it from Jester.

_“You can come by tonight, and get some dinner or something!”_

He had initially declined their - _Jester’s_ \- invitation to dinner. She was simply being polite, nothing more. Two of their number immediately protested when she had, after all.

Sweat gathers at his brow, and trickles treacherously to behind his ear. 

The streets narrowed, the terracotta buildings standing a little taller, casting longer shadows as the afternoon sun started its descent. The breeze was funnelled here in pleasant conditioning. A rainbow of flags fluttered happily as he passed under. 

He soon locates his quarry- a respected wine merchant. 

The curious amalgamation of Dynasty and Menagerie brought about a unique integrating of the two nations. Some shop fronts were polished wood, sleek and formal. Others were chiselled sandstone, ribbons and silks draped around inviting one in. 

This vendor was a mix of both. The double doors, latticed and gilded, were already open, circulating the gentle wind he himself was enjoying. Stepping into the cool building, he takes it in. 

Beautiful exhibits of carved crates stood at deliberate angles, displaying silken-bedded bottles inside. Rows of labels presented to him, all prostrated and tilted lavishly to present their very best wares. 

A long dark, glossy counter spanned the back of the shop, and hanging window crystals danced colour across the entire room. The counter was in two parts- one at Essek’s waist height with a bespectacled dragonborn woman manning this half. A silken-robed gnomish woman served at the other which came to just above his knees. 

A small table was set up in the middle with a deep velvet drape over it, and was attended by an individual of elven heritage. They had deep brown curls, and vibrant grey eyes, standing only a little taller than his illusioned self. Around them were three others, all patrons like himself, sipping on glasses and comparing bouquets. The aroma of spice and berry catch his attention from the group. 

He avoids them to peruse the offerings deeper in. The shop is busy but not suffocatingly so. It was a comfortable level of patronage. Various carafes and decanters were on offer, inviting the patrons to taste before buying. Shining crystal glasses stood upside down next to them. 

_“I appreciate the offer, but I have my own work and research to do!”_

He feels the coin purse secured tight to his belt, his illusion showing it on the opposite hip. He had money, that wasn’t an issue. But what to _buy._ The Mighty Nein were decidedly _not_ courtiers. They were _not_ of upper echelon society. They were practically common, almost. Normal, common folk who just happened to be in right (and wrong) places at right (and wrong) times. And also did _extraordinary things_. 

Like arrange peace talks between _nations_. 

The well-trained Den son that he is says that he should spend at _least_ three-figures on them. They’re Heroes of the Dynasty. They’re guests of the Bright Queen. It should be without question.

And yet... They are still just _folk_. 

Who invited him to dinner. 

He glides down the aisle, pausing at a display on top of a beautiful, dark cask. The bands around it were shining silver, the wood polished like the counter. Three bottles are poised at different heights on pedestals, showing off three various ages of the same brand. They are patterned bottles, with delicate grooves carved into each. A fine addition for such an expensive wine. A decanter sits ready and waiting, three-quarters full. 

Raising an eyebrow in piqued interest, he delicately pours a sample of “Stassman’s Aged Thistle Branch Dark Blood Wine.” It is boasted to be one of their _finest_ vintages, hailing from the Plumgroves of Feolinn, apparently. The claret swirls invitingly in its glass globe, and Essek inhales. 

He is not a habitual imbiber of alcohol and wine. He tolerates it at functions, Den dinners and the like. However even modest intake still amounts to a fair bit of experience over a _century_. 

This particular sample is not unpleasant. Its aroma is pleasing, not overwhelming, A generous sip reveals a refined taste. One that washes over his fangs and teeth with elegance before curling down the throat with surprising complexity. The drops on his lips are heavier than what trickles behind them and lingers like a stolen kiss. Essek finds that the family vinter’s reputation is well-founded. 

But it is _not_ the Mighty Nein. They were a band of fast-hitting, tumultuous people that could knock the wind out of him and then warm him like a cosy fire on a chilling night. He takes a second sip. And a third, emptying it. Very intellectually stimulating, he decides. He takes note of the brand for possible purchase in the future. Setting the glass on the ornate tray, he moves on. 

What would they like? Perhaps-? No. Well-..?

They probably wouldn’t really care would they? They have never shown to be fanatic about _wine_ of all things _._ His first impressions placed them in the Gaullimaufry district after all, with it being more their ‘speed’. And they _had_ very much been well suited- drinking in the bar like labourers and farmers!

They didn’t belong in Rosohna, or at least not the Firmaments next to the glistening elegance that was the Bastion, or the studious walls of the Conservatory. They were mismatched, ill-fitting standouts. Like he was-

Their home was not in Xhorhas. They didn't’ _belong-_

And yet, when he offered to transport them, they had looked bewildered. And turned him down.

The rejection of his offer had stung. Caught him off-guard and blindly. It wasn’t until Jester had messaged on their return to Rosohna that he thought he had kept himself preoccupied. Certainly with everything going on regarding Rexxentrum, and then the Tal’dorei dignitary, and Adeen-

Yet hearing her voice animated his day in such a lively way that his immediate work then and there paled in comparison to the sudden need to go and see them. It was _embarrassing_. 

And _yet_ they were all pleased to see him. And Yasha had returned to their ranks- a fine sight indeed, even if momentarily overlooked by Caleb’s prank on Fjord-

His mouth is already upturned into a reluctant smile at the thought, and he lets it stay there. 

They certainly were rowdy and loud. 

The rejection of his offer had spurned him into an automaton, batting away what he thought was an empty invitation. But then … they had looked confused at his offer. Was it so out of character for him to do so? To them, at least? Had he really changed? Or was it- 

Was it because they thought they were already _home_ , and the request absurd. Why would they need a teleport a few streets across? 

No. They wouldn’t consider it their home. It was just a house, a gift, a bribe. There was nothing there in Rosohna they were attached to enough to make them call it home. 

_“We miss you!”_

She didn’t mean that. Surely not. He was just their guide, really. 

A clink of glasses and cheery titters behind him interrupt his thoughts. He moves on, mood unsure.

He pauses at a lesser celebrated brand: “Oveso Family Dark Red.” Hmm. The bottle was plain, unadorned except for a simplistic label. A test sniff and taste admits to an earthy taste, with crude texture and uninviting, lingering aftertaste.. He doesn’t finish the sample. Not them. Too cheap, too unfinished. 

They weren’t finefolk or noble-born. Would they even appreciate a gift of wine? Would they bother to even look at the label? They didn’t really care about wine. Or expense spent. Or him. It was a polite invitation, nothing more. An empty gesture.

Aggravated he started towards the exit. He shouldn’t even be entertaining this! He had teleported half-way across the world to buy _wine._ It was so _desperate_ . The street outside was dusty and stone-paved compared to the interior of the wooden flooring of the sommeliers. He would just take a moment to find an alleyway, teleport in private back to his tower and no one need _ever_ know how ridiculous he had been since leaving their company an hour before. 

Surely it was just an empty gesture? She was _just being kind_! And there was the protests of Caduceus and Nott-

 _“We’ve nothing in the house!”_ _  
_ _“The kitchen hasn’t even been-”_

-About the lack of food. 

Not _him_. 

His growing frown pulls tightly into a grimace. Was he really such a _fool_?

No. Surely not. They had recently been calling him ‘friend’ but that was just honey- a trap to flatter him, goad him into their favour. But then Caleb said it. “We are friends, now.” And it became even _more_ dangerous. Two could play at that game. “I like that,” he had responded. “‘Friends.’” 

But they persisted and poked at him. He ended up looking forward to whenever Jester messaged, and she _always_ spoke to him so endearingly- 

Unlike… her message to the Martinet. That had been concise. Formal. Official, almost. None of the usual jovial cheer that usually embraces him. There was no familiarity awarded to Ludinus that Essek himself received all the time. And Da’leth was very much higher on the ranks of nationwide import than Essek was. So they weren’t cosying up to Archmage. 

So that...must- might- mean that… they _are_ … sincere? 

“May I help you at all?”

Essek startles to find the elf from earlier regarding him, their hands clasped politely and head tilted in concern. The crowd at the table had long dispersed it seems, no longer around the shop. Oh. He was blocking the doorway in his reverie. He fumbles an apology and steps back into the shop. 

“I- don’t _know_ .” It pains him to admit. It really does. But he feels so _lost_. 

“Maybe I can be of some help? Are you looking for something for a meal, or for a particular occasion, or person-”

_“Y-Yes.”_

They smile at him, and it’s a kind smile he sees. One that pushes their glasses up their face a little with its genuineness. They’re older than Essek, he thinks, and can see his uncertainty with practiced ease. It’s almost a _comfort_ to have someone see that and acknowledge it but not out loud. 

“Very well, will you step this way and we can discuss what you need.” They indicate away from the window to a shaded row, and Essek follows, feeling small. The sun was dipping further, the crest of light lining the doorway entrance fading slowly. 

“I-,” he starts, fumbling again. He aches to run his hand through his hair, his fingers twitch to do it, but cannot risk the illusion. “I’m… having dinner.” He starts. “With _friends_ .” The stress on the word coaxes from his throat unbidden, Essek suddenly realising how _afraid_ he was to admit that. 

A look of soft understanding and wise knowing crosses his saviour’s tanned face, and their eyes twinkle. “Can you describe them for me? Maybe we can find a good match.”

So he does. To this random stranger he tells all. Of a monk’s keen instincts and steadfast loyalty. Of an orc’s turmoil to belong. Of a lonely woman, lost for a while and recently found again. Of a goblin longing to be her true self. Of a young tiefling, adventuring out into the world for the first time with joy in her heart. Of a softly spoken cleric, who guards them like a firmly planted tree, unable to be shifted or swayed. 

Of a man with fire in his soul, and tragedy in his past. One who is running from who he used to be, and falling into who he will become. Of a like mind. 

His vendor-come-counselor listens with tender seriousness, nodding and inquiring at all the right parts. When Essek has divulged all, without names or locations, they take his shoulder and gently guide him to an out-of-the-way alcove. A few bottles rest here, out of the eyes of immediate visitors. One would have to go looking to find it behind the other shelves. The sommelier pulls a particularly curious bottle out. 

It is geometric, its body shaped like a partially-cut gem, not quite yet complete. The facets are straight and flat, but asymmetrical. It is not a tall bottle, nor is it stout. It doesn’t fit perfectly in his hand when Essek takes it, but the weight of it is good. The colour is a striking shade, just a few tints more red than his own skin. 

The price is middling- not too cheap, nor too expensive. It leans towards fair and the label lists its origins of a winery also near Feolinn. 

He purchases it without tasting. 

His hero refuses to take any added tip or bonuses, so he settles on sincere gratitude and they accept that with a wide smile. 

“I hope your dinner goes well,” they say kindly, leaning forward gently to catch his eye. A reassuring expression meets his own frantic gaze.

“So do I!” He answers, a little breathless, and he takes his leave. Now for the hard part.

Within half an hour he is standing outside the door to the Xhorhaus, clasping the irregular bottle in his hand nervously. A bizarre cacophony of noise announces their presence and he cannot help but laugh at their antics despite the fearful glances from passerbys.

He has donned his mantle once more (divested before attending Nicodranas- he might be a fool but he wasn’t going to overheat), and taken three attempts at knocking before actually making contact with the door. 

He enters to the sound of happy greetings, excited welcomes, and ringing chimes. 

_“If you would have a guest for dinner, perhaps?”_

He hands over his purchase, and Nott hurries to decant it. He was right, not even a single glance. Somehow, the prediction coming true is comforting and he feels… hopeful.

Later, when the wine has been poured and presented he finally takes a mouthful. 

The wine is deceptive in its aroma. What seems to be a charcoal scent, gives way to something more fleshed out, more flamboyant. The fresh-squeezed juices of the plums dance across his buds before settling into something more oaked, more dark and leisurely. Hints of a spice, with a fragment of vanilla. Honeyed and sharp it possesses a steely edge at first before dissolving into something warm and pleasant. 

It’s hard to swallow at first, but the aftertaste is moreish, addictive. He ends up filling on two goblets worth, and a personal reminder to get some more of this in. 

Yes, _Solvia Groves Diamond Plum Wine_ very much suited the Mighty Nein- true diamonds in the rough that they were. 

Essek enjoys himself this night. 

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from Essek Week on Tumblr (Thanks Jak!!) 
> 
> Usual love and kisses to the nutters at the ETFC, and to my readers. Your feedback and encouragement is fueling my authorial frenzy and keeping me distracted <3


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